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On the high hill sits an old man |
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his eyes are staring down... his mind is calm. |
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His sight he will soon turn ot the sky in the while |
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when the last page of that strange book he has finished reading. |
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In the distance he hears the clear and ringing laughter of a child. |
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He knows child well, better than its mother. |
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Child knows him as well, |
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their hearts have elected shared path. |
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Old man and child - old man and child. |
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Both they are the elements of one life |
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Yet their sights have never met |
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and won't ever meet, |
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as rough waters can never be the calm ones at the same time. |
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In that land that I was given to keep they live |
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their lives being teachers one to another. |
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Celestial orchestra will begin to play when |
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my mouth begins to speakto you by their joint language, |
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as mother speaks to her child |
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and then your tears shall be wiped... |
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...you tear-stained ones... |
